


Single White Witch

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belts, Creepy, F/F, Fights, Friendship, Guns, Jealousy, Kidnapping, POV Rowena MacLeod, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Restraints, Rowena MacLeod's Attack Dog Spell, Stalking, Witches, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-04 08:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18340007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: When Rowena gets kidnapped by an unhinged witch, you enlist Sam's help to rescue her.





	1. Lost

Rowena's head was throbbing as if someone had smashed it with a hammer. She felt hungover, as if she'd drunk a whole bottle of scotch and, light on her feet, sedated by the strong alcohol, passed out cold on a bench in a park.

Had she gotten drunk and passed out cold on a bench in a park?

No. That wasn't what happened. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't remember drinking anything other than tea in…

How long was it?

How long had she been out?

She tried to bring her hands to her head, wanted to massage her temples and rub her eyes, but for some reason her arms wouldn't move. She pulled, startlingly weak; whatever she was on, whatever was in her system, seeping through her veins like poison (for all she knew, it might as well have been poison) had numbed her down enough to drown out her strength. Something tightened around her wrist, bit painfully into her skin. Rope, she deducted. Or straps. Some kind of binding.

She was trapped.

Shivers ran through Rowena at the realization, fear cutting to the bone, to her very core. Her eyes snapped open, wide, confused, terrified. She was in what appeared to be a bedroom. There was a closet in one corner and a desk full with a computer and a printer in the other one. The walls were white and bright, freshly painted. On them hung pictures in elegant, expensive frames, the kind used for artworks of great, long-dead painters in galleries.

Pictures of her.

Rowena's blood ran cold as she took the sight in. There were various pictures of her, some drawn, some painted. The majority, though, were taken by what appeared to be a professional, high resolution camera.

She had never seen them before. Had never consented to them being taken. The moments they showed were private. Her smiling. Laughing. Fixing her hair. Flexing her muscles because you'd dared her to. Pouting at your teasing. Holding up a forefinger in your face, a mock threat. All happy, carefree times captured in secret from afar.

Times she'd spent with you, in a sea of many, many more similar ones, all equally happy, equally loving.

The pictures, though, only showed her. Whoever had taken them was obviously obsessed with her. Rowena loved attention, but this person's interest in her went way beyond normal. They were stalking her.

And now they had taken her.

She was on a double bed, head supported by a pillow. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the bed posts by leather belts wrapped surprisingly tightly — that, or she was still too weak from whatever had knocked her out. Her shoes were missing, and so was her jacket, leaving her in a silky shirt and dress pants. She supposed it could have been worse. The creep could have removed her pants.

She tried, once more, to pull her wrists and feet free, but to no avail. A frustrated snarl escaped her, deep and feral. Figures she would get herself in this mess. She couldn't go a month without getting in trouble.

How did she get here, anyway?

She'd been shopping. She remembered that clearly, the mall, big, swarming with people young and old, still fresh in her mind. She'd laid her bags on the backseat of her car, keys tight in her hand. There were three of them, she recalled. Each big and filled to the brim with newly bought clothes. The joys of fake, magically-enhanced credit cards. She was about to open the door and sit down at the driver's seat when…

What happened?

She… she saw someone.

Someone familiar.

Someone she never, on a million years, thought she'd see again.

She wasn't drunk or drugged, she realized. She was spelled. She hadn't had time to react before the hex bag was thrown and words of magic echoed in the empty parking lot, and suddenly everything was black.

The door creaked open, shaking Rowena back to the present. A woman entered the room, her mouth wide in a smile that made Rowena's stomach twist with unease. She was clad in jeans and a black T-shirt with Rowena's face printed on it. Her hair, long, dark, was tied up in a neat ponytail. She looked so plain, so human, so harmless.

Rowena knew she was trouble from the first time she saw her all those months ago. "Martha," she hissed, not even trying to hide the venom from her tone.

Martha flashed a wide, creepy grin. "You're awake!"

* * *

What gave her away was the hex bag. It was blue, the pastel shade not many witches would have chosen for their hex bags.

Martha Morgan wasn't like any other witch.

Fear ran deep in your bones, sharp like a razor, cutting you up from the inside with each breath you took, each new thought, worse than the last one, that formed in your mouth.

At first you'd paid no mind to Rowena's tardiness. It wasn't the first time — and certainly not the last — she was late from a shopping trip. Boutiques were one of her greatest weaknesses, second only to sales; if she had come across good deals, she would use them, even if it meant spending the entire day at the store, trying out identical dresses mere hues different in color. Sea green, mint green, teal, and turquoise were different colors, thank you very much.

But when the afternoon sun bled into twilight and there was still no sign of her, you got worried. She'd left early in the morning. Even if she had happened to come across a sale, she should have been back a while ago. She wouldn't have stayed out so late without at least a text message to let you know she was okay.

You'd tried calling her, but her phone seemed to be turned off. Your first clue that something was very, very wrong. Rowena's phone was always on. She knew you worried if you couldn't reach her, and she'd never make herself unavailable on purpose — not unless the two of you parted on bad terms. Today, you hadn't. Everything was fine. She'd even promised to get you something if she thought it would be to your liking.

She wouldn't purposely ignore you. Wouldn't worry you for no reason.

Something wasn't right.

Your suspicions were confirmed when the cab dropped you off at the mall and you rushed into the filled-to-the-brim-with-vehicles, people-empty parking lot. Rowena's Porsche was unlocked. The keys were laid on the driver's seat as if tossed. As if dropped. There were three large shopping bags in the backseat, each a different color with brand lettering in the front. Rowena's favorite stores.

And on the ground, just beside the front wheel, was a baby blue hex bag.

Martha's signature.

Rowena was nowhere in sight.

As soon as you saw the offending object, you dialed Sam's number and, doing your best (and failing) to keep the hysterics out of your tone, begged him to come over. "Rowena's been kidnapped," was enough for him to promise to be right there.

Not an hour later, your doorbell rang.

"What happened?" Sam inquired.

You were shaking, tears falling freely down your face no matter how hard you tried to hold them back.

"She took Rowena," you whimpered. "She took her, Sam!"

"Who?" the hunter asked. You shook your head frantically, trying to chase the bad thoughts away; thoughts of that woman's nasty hands on your girl, doing things you weren't sure you wanted to imagine. Sam laid a hand on your shoulder, a firm but soothing gesture. Kind. Friendly. "Hey, it's okay. It's gonna be okay. Just tell me what happened."

You took a deep breath, then another, and one more before you finally calmed down enough to talk. "Her name is Martha Morgan. She-she's crazy! She took Rowena!"

"How do you know it's her?"

You held up the discarded hex bag. "I found this by Rowena's car." The car that was now sitting comfortably in your garage along with the shopping bags. You didn't dare move them. They were Rowena's to open, Rowena's to show off and gush about. "It's Martha's color. I think she left it there on purpose."

She wanted you to find it. Wanted you to know that the tables have turned, that she had Rowena and you didn't.

Sam frowned at the bag. He took it into his hands, turned it over, observed it like a scientist looking a sample under a microscope. "You're sure it's hers?"

"One hundred percent," you said with a nod.

"Why would she do it?"

"Because Rowena and I turned her away."

Sam raised an eyebrow, prompting for you to continue.

Sucking in a breath, you started the story.

You'd first met Martha a few months ago. She was Rowena's biggest fan, and somehow she'd managed to get in contact with her and had asked her for magic lessons. She was a decent witch, but she'd wanted to learn more, and who better to teach her than her apparent idol?

Rowena, never one to pass up on compliments and adoration, had said yes.

And then things got weird.

While the first time the two of you had met her went okay, you'd decided to look Martha up online, more curious than cautious, and had come across her Twitter profile.

The woman, it had turned out, was obsessed with Rowena.

She'd never mentioned her by name, but it didn't take a genius to figure out she was talking about your girlfriend. Days prior, she'd talked about her desire to meet her. How she'd needed it. Craved it more than air and water. Yearned for it with her entire being.

Mere hours after their first meeting, she'd tweeted that she missed her.

A few hours after that a similar tweet was posted.

She needed her, she'd said. Needed her in her life. Wanted to spend the rest of her life beside her. She couldn't bear to be apart from her; the distance, however short, was killing her.

"Naturally" you said, "Rowena was creeped out."

Everyone in their right mind would have been had they been in her shoes. She'd met the woman once, only to find out Martha had basically considered them soulmates, and was gushing about it online.

"The next day, things went crazy."

Crazy was an understatement of the century.

Martha had shown up on time, just like she and Rowena had agreed. She'd walked in on you telling Rowena about an insane witch you'd met years ago, long before you'd known her. And, in a turn of events that should not have shocked you yet it still had, as soon as Rowena told Martha, as politely as she could, that she would not be available to teach her after all, the other witch pointed the finger at you. She'd assumed you'd told Rowena not to hire her, that you were jealous and had made her out to be a lunatic to keep her away from your girlfriend.

If you had done that, you would have been well within your rights to.

An argument erupted, Martha accusing you, you firing back just as ferociously, until Rowena had had enough and threw the other witch out with a firm warning never to contact either one of you again.

"She still bitched about me on Twitter," you added. "And she was still being creepy about Rowena. But other than that, she left us alone. I didn't think she'd ever do this."

Didn't think she'd cross the line. That she would take Rowena from you, and leave you a reminder to let you know, loud and clear, what she had done.

You should have known. The woman was unhinged; her obsession went further than that of a typical fangirl daydreaming about her idol. She was truly, genuinely in love with Rowena — or whatever sick, twisted emotion it was that she'd mistaken for love — and had finally, after months of waiting, decided to act on it.

"We have to save Rowena, Sam," you said with utter desperation. A few tears spilled down your cheeks, clouding your vision. You wiped them away with the back of your hand. "She's crazy! Who knows what she'll do to her!"

"We will," Sam assured you. His hand landed on top of yours, a gesture of comfort, of friendship. A promise. He cared about Rowena. He wouldn't let some psycho hurt her if he could do something about it. "Do you know where we can find her?"

"When she first got here, she gave us her address." You handed him a small paper, glad you'd forgotten to throw it out. "I looked that area up; it's in the middle of nowhere."

A perfect place for a kidnapper to hide her victim.

"Great! Come on."

Sam headed out, and you followed suit like a faithful puppy. You would find her, you told yourself. She would be okay. She would be safe. Martha wouldn't hurt her.

Even as you thought that, a feeling of unease washed over you, from the top of your head down to your toes. Your stomach clenched, nausea sinking in, your insides a liquid storm turning round and round, a tornado of anguish, of concern. What if Martha did hurt her? Rowena was a proud person, defiant to the very end. She wouldn't let a lowly witch, no matter how insane she was, treat her like property, like an object to be stolen. She would fight back. Kick. Scream. Run her mouth like she always did.

How would Martha react to rejection?

Would she still be infatuated, or would she go into a rage and—

_ No. _

There was no point thinking about it, no point imagining horrible scenarios. Rowena was going to be okay. She was a fighter. A survivor. She could hold her own against a witch centuries her junior.

You slid into the passenger seat. As the car roared to life and hurried in the direction of Martha's house, your eyes were focused on the road ahead.

_ Be strong, sweetheart, _ you thought.  _ We're coming. You're gonna be okay. _

You swore your life on it.

 


	2. Defeated

****

"What in hell are you doing?" Rowena demanded. She kept her face as blank as possible; she allowed anger to seep in, allowed it to twist her features, hoping to keep the fear that rattled in her bones at bay.

Martha had already kidnapped her and tied her up. She didn't get to see her scared.

The other witch flashed a smile that made Rowena's stomach turn, a smile that was supposed to be happy, friendly, but ended up resembling that of a maniac. Which wasn't that far from the truth. Martha  _ was _ a maniac. No sane person did what she did, acted the way that she did. She was completely, utterly crazy, and her look reflected that.

"What's it look like I'm doing? I'm saving you!" she said, outraged at having to explain it, her southern accent thick in every word.

Rowena rolled her eyes. Of course she was saving her. Of bloody course!

"You're bloody mad!" she said, and instantly regretted it.

Martha looked at her with murder in her eyes, a glare so intense it burned right through her. "No, you're mad!  _ You!" _ She pointed an accusatory finger at Rowena, shaking with rage, with anger that burned like fire inside her. Rowena flinched as if struck, and Martha sucked in a breath to calm down. "I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault."

No, it bloody wasn't! If she was tied to un uncomfortable bed she would be angry, too. Maybe Martha wasn't quite as crazy as she thought.

She took the thought back a whole second later when Martha added, "Y/N brainwashed you. You poor thing."

Rowena couldn't help it — she laughed, loud, hearty, a laughter so sweet she couldn't stop for a few moments. She was aware of Martha's delusions of you turning her against her, but this? This was comedy gold.

"See? She did that to you!" Martha accused.

"I can assure you, Y/N did no such thing. I can think for myself," Rowena told her. Her face turned serious, lightness dying out like the flip of a switch, features hardening like stone/stone. "And I think you're bloody mental!"

"Shut up!" Martha snapped, stomping her feet like a toddler. It would have looked ridiculous had she not been a heavyset woman in her forties with a mad look in her eyes.

An obsessed woman-child. Just what Rowena needed.

She had to get out of here. Had to get out of these restraints, this room, this house. Had to get away from this woman.

Staring straight at Martha, she exclaimed with utmost conviction, willing her magic to spring free,  _ "Abi!" _

Nothing happened.

There was no rush of energy inside her, no tingles that accompanied her spells. It was as if her magic was dead, gone, as if it had never been there. An empty feeling settled over her. It felt as if she were missing a limb, a vital part of her she wasn't sure she could live without — wasn't sure she  _ wanted to _ live without.

"What did you do?" she hissed, threat clear in her tone. She shot Martha her deadliest glare, the one that made even demons cower in fear.

The witch flinched, but quickly regained her composure. "A little spell. Should wear off soon, don't worry."

As soon as it did, Rowena swore to make her pay. Nobody blocked her magic and got away with it.

"I'd never take your magic away. I know how much you love it."

"How noble of you," Rowena deadpanned.

"I know you don't believe me, but I really do care about you," Martha said in a tad softer voice. She was honest, genuine. As mad as she was, she meant every word. "I love you."

"I'm flattered," Rowena said sarcastically. She would've been flattered if someone else had said that to her. Someone less unhinged.

Martha ignored her remark. "These months without you were hell. I missed you  _ so _ much!"

The feeling wasn't mutual.

"You have no idea what it was like."

"And I don't care," Rowena told her flatly. For all she cared, the woman could have offed herself. She didn't want to be around her. Didn't want anything to do with her.

She should have killed her the moment you'd shown her those obsessive Twitter posts about her.

The old Rowena would have killed her in the blink of an eye.

Redemption was a bitch.

"She turned you against me," Martha said sadly.

"For the last time, Y/N has done nothing!" Rowena snapped, having had enough of her nonsense. From day one, all you'd ever done was take care of her, protect her, love her. She wouldn't let some stalker smear your name. "I made the decision not to teach you. Not her. Me!"

"Why?" the other woman demanded petulantly.

"Because you're bloody obsessed!"

"All I ever wanted was to learn from you."

_ In that case, maybe you shouldn't have been creepy, _ Rowena thought bitterly.

"And you let her talk you into rejecting me," Martha said, prompting Rowena to roll her eyes. The woman's lack of self awareness was astonishing. "I know she did it! I know! I heard her!"

She'd heard you talk about a witch from her past, but no matter how many times you and Rowena had tried to explain it to her, she never listened. She was convinced you'd been badmouthing her. Rowena wouldn't have blamed you if you had. All you'd done, though, was show her Martha's Twitter profile. Rowena had made all decisions on her own.

Teaching Martha wouldn't have put only her at risk — it would have endangered you, too. She hadn't wanted to bring an unstable person around you.

As evidenced by today, she'd made the right choice.

"She wasn't—"

"Save it!" Martha cut her off. "I know what I heard!" She took a deep breath and flashed another smile. "But it's okay. I know it's just her influence. You'll see the light soon enough."

Rowena didn't like the sound of that. "What are you talking about?"

Grinning like the cat that got the cream, Martha held up a vial filled to the brim with liquid the rich color of roses, bright and red and strangely beautiful. Rowena stiffened.  _ No. No, no, no. _ That wasn't what she thought it was. It couldn't be! Martha was psychotic, but would she go that far?

She would. She absolutely would. The realization sent a chill, cold and deadly and painful, straight through Rowena. It burrowed itself into her core like a parasite. Even though the room was relatively warm, she shivered.

She glanced over her bare arms and feet, and she suddenly felt exposed, naked, vulnerable. She had no magic. No means to escape, to defend herself. She was helpless.

"Martha—" she uttered, the word bitter on her tongue, cyanide killing her one breath at the time, one desperate, manic heartbeat.

"I assume you know what this is," the other witch said. There was a smugness in her tone, a lilt that was almost joyous. She cradled the vial in both hands, her thick, meaty fingers caressing the glass with utmost care, with devotion one would give an ailing human.

A love potion. Rowena could recognize it from a mile away by nothing but mere smell. She'd seen its effects on people. Seen the way it changed them into mindless zombies wanting nothing more than to be with, than to worship the object of their infatuation. Seen their sanity slipping away with every passing moment, the magic burning everything that made them them, that made them a person, away like acid. It was a despicable concoction, an abomination. It should not have been allowed to exist.

Rowena's thoughts shifted to you. To your smile every time you laid your eyes upon her, each as bright as the very first one. To your hands around her, holding her tight, giving her the safety she'd been missing for centuries. To you telling her you loved her every single day with nothing but utmost honesty, utmost conviction. To the cutesy nicknames you gave her that she pretended to hate, but secretly liked. To you taking care of her when she was injured, holding her after nightmares, soothing her every time a random memory of that day in May two years ago would pop up in her mind and bring her to tears.

She couldn't forget that. Couldn't throw it all away — throw  _ you _ away — for a madwoman who saw her as nothing more than a possession, an object to be acquired. You loved her with all you had, and she loved you just as strongly. She didn't want false emotions to overwrite that.

"Don't you dare!" she hissed, trying to be threatening but coming off as nothing more than a powerless kitten.

"You're leaving me no other choice," Martha said. "She's got you under a spell, Rowena. This is the only way to snap you out of it."

Had the situation not been this dire, Rowena would have laughed. You, cursing her to fall in love with you? You apologized for accidentally wrapping a bandage a tad too tightly around a wee cut on her hand. The idea that you would brainwash her couldn't have been more ridiculous.

"You're even more unhinged than I thought," Rowena said.

"I'm doing this for you!" Martha said.

"No, you're doing it for you! Because you're mad!" Rowena snapped. "You bloody kidnapped me, woman!"

"To protect you!"

"To make me into a slave!"

Martha flinched as if struck. "Never," she said in a voice that was a tad too calm, a tad too tranquil for Rowena's liking. There was absolute conviction in her tone, a genuinity that came straight from the heart. It was what made her more dangerous than all those monsters — human and supernatural — Rowena had faced in her long lifetime. What made her more dangerous than the monster Rowena used to be. They knew what they were doing was wrong. They knew it, and they killed and destroyed and ruined because they didn't care.

Martha, on the other hand, was fully convinced she was in the right. Her actions made sense to her; they were justified, noble. In her mind, she wasn't a villain — she was a hero.

"I would never make you do anything you don't want to do," she said. Rowena snorted, and the other witch ignored it, adding, "I know what the potion does normally, but this is different. It's just gonna cancel out Y/N's spell, nothing else. I promise! It's gonna set you free."

"I'm not under a spell!" Rowena snarled for what seemed to be the millionth time. "I love Y/N because…" Because you'd given her a chance when everyone else had labelled her as yet another wicked witch. Because you dared become her first friend in centuries, and had allowed yourself to love her even when you knew she would have left you for dead if circumstances required it. Because you let her be herself, never once demanding she change. Because you taught her to love again, taught her that it was okay, that love was a strength rather than a weakness. "Because she respects my boundaries!"

Martha scoffed. "That's what she wants you to think."

Rowena rolled her eyes. "Believe me, she's not this mastermind you think she is." You'd never even looked at her wrong. The thought that you would harm her, that you would curse her into loving you was insane. "She doesn't have a wicked bone in her body." Her eyes connected with Martha's, the look in them cold, sharp as a knife. "For one, she's never kidnapped me."

Martha shook her head. "I told you—"

"It's for my own good. Aye, heard you the first time." Rowena laughed, and made it a point to let her know she was laughing at her. "What makes you think she cursed me? Is it me not wanting to teach you?"

Another snort, an undignified but awfully appropriate sound. Martha's face fell; she suddenly looked small, despite her massive size. A scared, tiny little girl. That was what she was. Nothing more and nothing less. Just a child who wanted a toy so desperately, she stole it, the consequences be damned.

"What makes you think I wanted to teach you?" Rowena continued.

Maybe antagonizing her captor wasn't the best idea, but what did she have to lose? She was helpless, powerless, about to be turned into a slave. About to be used and taken advantage of and raped by a mad woman-child convinced she was in love with her.

Rowena was sick of it. Sick of being toyed with, of being used and abused under the pretense of love, of kindness, of friendship. Fergus' father, Lucifer, all those people who pretended to care when all they ever wanted was to take advantage and leave her for dead. She was nothing to them, a mere pawn in their game, a toy to be discarded when they grew bored of her.

She was done sucking up, done playing nice in hopes of receiving mercy. She deserved better.  _ You _ deserved better.

If she ever got a chance to see you again, she wanted you to know that she fought for the both of you. That she didn't give in. That she kicked and screamed and gave it her best. Even if she ended up defeated, she wanted you to know that she at the very least tried.

You would have done the same for her.

You'd sacrificed so much for her. So many nights you'd spent holding her instead of sleeping, soothing her after yet another in a string of nightmares. So many bright, sunny days wasted taking care of her when you could have been having the time of your life. So many opportunities you'd turned down for the sole reason of staying with her, of having her back.

"I admit, I was flattered by your compliments. But other than that, what did you have to offer?"

Martha glanced up at her for a short moment, and Rowena raised her eyebrows, prompting her to answer. Daring her to say something, to give her more ammunition to fire at her. She was all out of patience for the woman's nonsense.

She smiled at her silence. "That's right. Nothing. You're a mediocre witch, Martha. I was going to turn you away within ten minutes of meeting you, but it was Y/N who told me to give you a chance. She thought you had potential."

"You're lying!" Martha snarled.

"I'm not."

She was. She did consider Martha a decent witch, and the decision to teach her was all her own. But this wasn't about the truth — this was about control, about power. Very soon, Martha was going to take hers away. Rowena wanted to hurt her before that happened, wanted to leave her mark. If she was going to be a slave, then the other woman would suffer. It was a fair trade.

"You are a horrible witch, and an even worse person," she continued. "We could have been friends if you weren't so obsessed. It was your abhorrent behavior that drove me away. Not Y/N. Not some spell.  _ You." _

Martha shook her head. "No."

"Yes." Rowena kept her stare on her, kept her tone just as pointed, just as cold as the look in her emerald eyes. All business, no play. As serious as death. "You can shove that potion down my throat, but the truth is, I will never love you. It will never be real."

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke next, it was ice, straight from her soul.

"As a matter of fact, I  _ loathe _ you. You make me sick."

"Shut up!" Martha snapped, stomping her feet like a spoilt brat being denied an expensive toy. Her hands clasped over her ears, head shaking madly, left, right, left, right, a frantic, never ending loop. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Rowena watched her, amused. Just as she thought. A brat. A middle-aged, tantrum-throwing toddler. A baby in the body of a forty-five-year-old woman.  _ That  _ wanted her to love her?  _ That _ thought you'd cursed and somehow persuaded her to cut her off? Rowena would rather off herself than ever willingly fall in love with a person like that.

"You're wrong! You're broken!" Martha ranted. Potion clutched tight in her hand, she stalked over to Rowena's bedside. "I'll fix you!"

Rowena gulped. Nervousness settled over her, but she pushed it down, willed her features to appear neutral. She wouldn't lose her composure. Not now. "Get away from me!"

"I'll fix you, and then you'll love me!"

Martha's hand fell on Rowena's chest, right over her breasts. Rowena shuddered, a wave of nausea roiling in her stomach. She didn't want her to touch her, didn't want her disgusting hands (or any other part of her body, for that matter) anywhere near her.

Thick fingers curled around her left breast, feeling it, caressing it almost gently. "You're mine," Martha said, and squeezed her breast in emphasis. "She can't have you anymore."

Swallowing a lump that had formed in her throat, Rowena spat, "I will never be yours." She made sure to pour as much venom in her words as possible. She hated her, loathed her, despised her with her entire being, and she wanted her to know it. She wanted her to  _ feel _ it. "It will always be Y/N. Always. Even if you make me think I love you, Y/N will be the one I actually love. No amount of potions or spells will change that."

"We'll see," Martha said. She raised up the potion and looked it over lovingly. "You'll come to your senses soon enough, Rowena. You'll regret those words."

"I will die before I do," Rowena told her.

"Let's see, shall we?"

Slowly, with utmost care, Martha uncapped the vial. A sweet, rosy smell filled Rowena's nostrils. Panic filled her veins like poison, took her over, overwhelmed her. Her hands closed into tight fists, toes curled, teeth snapped shut. She wouldn't drink that potion. She wouldn't. Martha couldn't make her.

One look into the madwoman's eyes told her she absolutely could — and would.

_ No. _ Rowena shook her head, once, twice, three times.  _ No.  _ There had to be something else to do, something to get her out of this. She hadn't fought so hard her entire life to be enslaved by a lowly witch. She'd survived The Men of Letters, The Grand Coven, and Lucifer. She'd suffered, but she'd survived. And she could survive Martha Morgan.

But how? How could she defend herself? She had no magic. Her hands and feet were bound, the rest of her body useless. She had her mouth, but what good would that do? It had gotten her into enough trouble as it was.

_ Y/N, please! _ she begged.  _ Please help me. _ Tears prickled at her eyes, but she willed them to stay back. She wouldn't give Martha the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Were you aware she was gone? Had you noticed? If you had, were you on your way to save her?

_ Please! _

Rowena hated relying on others, even you, but it was the only thing she had left. She couldn't get out of this on her own. She needed help. She needed  _ you. _ Needed you to burst in and  _ Abi _ Martha out the window. Needed you to wrap your arms around her and tell her everything was okay, that she was safe, that the worst had passed. Needed you to tell her you loved her.

Needed you to be her hero, for she was too weak, too bloody useless to be her own.

"Martha—"

"Shh," Martha said. "Just relax, dear. One sip, and everything's gonna be okay."

Just as the words left her mouth, a loud, squeaking sound thundered from somewhere in the house.

Martha snarled, mad as a fury.

And Rowena's eyes lit up with hope.


	3. Found

Martha's house couldn't have come into view soon enough. Hidden deep in the thick forest that stretched out for miles in all directions, it was a rather cozy little place, if the exterior was anything to go by. A perfect hiding spot for a solitary witch.

Especially if said witch was an unhinged kidnapper.

Sam parked the car about five hundred feet away, behind a clutter of particularly thick bushes and blossoming trees. If the two of you wanted to sneak up on Martha, you had to be inconspicuous, which would have been a tad difficult to do if you'd parked in her driveway. You might as well have rung the bell and politely, with tight smiles door-to-door salesmen and Jehovah's Witnesses would envy, asked for Rowena's return.

Yeah, that would end well.

Martha would never see you coming from the forest. Trees made for perfect camouflage.

"Ready?" Sam asked.

You mentally went over a few spells, readying them in case of emergency, and nodded. "Ready."

Sam grabbed the witch-killing-bullets-filled gun, and the two of you were on your way. He'd offered you the same gun, but you'd declined, deciding to stick with magic. You'd never fired a gun in your life. Getting a hold of one, even with the safety on, would most likely end in disaster. Knowing your luck, you would end up shooting yourself while aiming at Martha's head. You had mad auto-injury skills. Rowena was proud.

Rowena… How was she doing? Had Martha hurt her?

_ Stop it, Y/N! _ you chastised yourself, shaking the unpleasant thoughts away. Rowena was a big girl. She could hold her own against a forty-five-year old witch. Even if she was restrained, you had no doubt she could defend herself. Your girl had a big mouth and an even bigger, very Scottish vocabulary.

Unless said mouth and vocabulary got her in even more trouble, in which case you were ready to skin a bitch alive. But you couldn't think about that now. You had to focus on the good, on the positive, on the hopeful.

Maybe Martha hadn't taken her to harm her in the first place. She was obsessed with her; she wanted her in ways that would have been cute if they weren't disturbing. She loved her. Maybe that was why she'd kidnapped her — to be close to her, to have her for her own. It beat other, much less pleasant scenarios.

Sam and you sneaked out to the back of the house, behind a small, dilapidated shed. You let him take the lead and followed after him like a puppy. He was a hunter; he must have done this hundreds of times. You were just a witch, scared and worried out of your mind. It was why you'd called him for help. He knew what to do, and how to do it right.

"There's a back door," he said in a hushed voice. You glanced in the direction he was gesturing to, took in the teal-colored door, and nodded. "You take it, and I'll take the front door."

Panic bloomed up in your chest like flowers in spring, fresh and overwhelming. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'll go in first, distract her if possible. Then you go in through the back and look for Rowena."

Sounded like a plan.

You gave a sharp nod, still unsure. You didn't know this house, didn't know the layout. What if there were more rooms than it looked like from the outside? What if all the doors were squeaky? What if there were traps? Martha was a good witch. You wouldn't put it past her to magic the house against intruders.

"You ready?" Sam asked, noticing your uncertainty.

"Not really."

He laid a hand on his shoulder, a kind, friendly gesture. His lips widened into a smile. "It's gonna be okay. We can do this."

"I know," you said after a moment's hesitation. You pulled on a grin, a fake one you hoped was convincing enough. "Let's go. Rowena gets fussy when she has to wait long."

Sam laughed, then, face growing serious, stalked towards the front of the house. You watched him like a hawk, intently, thoroughly, taking in his actions. Hoping you could be just as good, just as sneaky as him. Rowena counted on you. You had to do it. You  _ could  _ do it. If she were here, she would tell you so. She would believe in you. As difficult as it was for her, after centuries of betrayal and protective walls she'd hidden behind, she trusted you with her life. You wouldn't let her down.

If you were the one who was kidnapped, Rowena would tear the world apart to find you. She'd leave no stone, no teeny-tiny rock unturned. You owed it to her to do the same for her.

You waited a few moments after Sam entered the house (a fear-laden cringe spread over your face at the loud squeak of the front door. You hoped your entrance would be a lot quieter) before heading for the back door. Gently, tentatively, as if you were tending to someone's grave injury, you twisted the knob. A sigh of relief escaped you at the silence; you were lucky. As quietly as you could, you sneaked inside.

The hallway was dark. There were a few tiny tables and closets by the wall, each supporting a potted plant or two. Pictures in elegant frames lined the wall. Looking closer, you realized with a shudder that they were of Rowena. Martha was watching her. Not only that, but she'd taken pictures of her. A part of you was glad she'd cut you out of them, but the feeling of unease remained. This woman — this witch — was a stalker.

The only thing worse than a crazy person was a crazy person with stalking tendencies.

Had she watched the two of you together? Had she watched you hugging, kissing, messing around? Had she followed you home?

A knot, tight, aching, formed in your stomach at the thought, icy chills spilling down your spine. What if she did know where you lived? What if she was there? Following Rowena's brutal murder at Lucifer's hands, the two of you had warded the house heavily. Nobody and nothing uninvited could step foot inside. But Martha was a witch. What if she was looking for a way to get in?

What if she'd already found a way?

You decided, right then and there, that Martha Morgan would die. You'd fully intended to kill her for taking Rowena — this only helped cement your decision. She had to die. She was too dangerous to be allowed to live.

A large staircase came into view. Looking around to make sure you were in the clear, you rose up on your tiptoes and started walking up it. Another dark hallway greeted you. There were a few doors the same teal color as the back door. Preparing a spell in your mind, you reached for the one on your left when you heard a muffled sound. It was quiet, faint, but you could hear it clearly.

You stalked to the end of the hallway, following the strange sound. It seemed to be coming from the room furthest away.  _ Please, be okay, _ you prayed to whoever was listening.  _ Please, be okay. Please, be okay. _ Going over a few attack spells, just in case, you carefully opened the door.

Your heart stopped dead in its tracks.

Rowena was on the bed, wrists and ankles tied with belts. Her shoes and jacket were gone; looking around, you found them beside the bed, neatly resting on the floor. A black piece of fabric was wrapped around her mouth, a makeshift gag. She appeared to be unharmed. There were no bruises in sight, no cuts, no blood marring her skin or clothes.

You breathed out in relief. She was okay. And, now that you were here, she was safe.

Rowena's eyes lit up at the sight of you. She released a sigh, relief washing over her. You gave her your brightest smile.

"There you are," you said happily. "Been looking all over for you. You're a hard girl to find."

She rolled her eyes, prompting you to chuckle, and mumbled something that, from the tone and the look on her face, didn't seem very polite. 

You shot her a mock glare. "Be nice. I'm here to rescue you."

Another mumble, identical tone. You had to laugh. Rowena was difficult, an acquired taste, but she was yours. You loved her more than anything and anyone in the world, and you knew she felt the same. Behind the sassy exterior there was a sweetheart, a softie that enjoyed kisses and cuddles, that called you "dearest" and made you tea and held your hand tight when you were sick.

"Yup, sweetie. I'm your knight in shining armor," you teased, earning you another eyeroll. Your little drama queen. She was a delight to mess with. You were one of the few people who dared do so; most knew her power and did their best to stay out of her way. Pissing off one of the deadliest witches in the world was far from a good idea.

You begged to disagree. You liked a good challenge. What was she going to do? Pout at you to death? Scrunch her face until you keeled over from adorableness?

But then, she was in love with you. Others weren't so lucky.

You undid the belts on Rowena's ankles, then hurried to do the same for her wrists. As soon as she was free, she ripped the gag off, threw it aside with a disgusted look on her face, and shot you a look that was so intense your knees felt weak underneath it.

"About bloody time," she said. Her tone was curt and to the point, but there was no malice in it, no hostility. She wasn't mad at you; she was simply doing what she always did when she was scared — put on a facade to hide behind, a steel-forged mask to fool the world into thinking she was fine, into thinking she was this cold, heartless bitch when she was anything but.

She should've known by now that you weren't the world. You knew her better than anyone.

Before you could utter an equally snippy response, Rowena pulled you down to the bed. Her arms fell around you, followed quickly by her legs. She clung to you like a koala, her grip tight, strong, almost suffocating. You wasted no time returning the hug, holding back with equal force. It felt so good to hold her, to feel the warmth of her skin on yours, to feel the soft vibrations of her heart. She was so small in your arms, so fragile. You never wanted to let her go again.

"I was so scared," you said. A few tears slipped down your cheeks as you flashed back to the sheer terror that had struck you when your eyes first fell upon the blue hex bag. So many scenarios had gone through your head, so many images horror movies would envy. You were glad, so very, very glad none of them came true.

"I know," Rowena said. "Me, too." It took a lot out of her to admit it, especially out loud. She rarely bared her soul. If something was bothering her, you usually had to fish the words out of her mouth.

Instinctively, your grip tightened. "Did she hurt you?"

"No. She wanted to shove a love potion down my throat, but—"

You pulled back and looked her in the eyes. "She what?"

Rowena sighed, tired. "She thinks you cast a spell on me to make me fall in love with you."

You blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, like a flash flood, a bark of laughter tore from your mouth.

Even back when Rowena saw you as more of an accessory than a friend, long before you'd started dating, it had never crossed your mind, not for even a second, to spell her to change her mind about you. You could live with her paying you no mind, could live with her hating you and leaving you without a shred of remorse as long as she chose to do so. You never wanted to take her choice away from her.

After all, you weren't a psychotic witch who kidnapped people and wanted to force-feed them love potions.

"That was my reaction as well," Rowena said, amused. "Before she could do anything, she heard a noise and went to investigate."

A noise? Shit! "That's probably Sam."

Shock spread over Rowena's face like paint. "Samuel is here?"

"Yeah. I called him."

You turned away from her, suddenly ashamed. You couldn't even rescue your girlfriend on your own. Some witch you were. If roles were reversed, Rowena would've wiped the floor with Martha, untied you, and painted her nails at the same time.

She most certainly would never beg a hunter for help.

Rowena brought a hand to your cheek, cupping it with utmost tenderness. She tilted your head back to look you in the eyes. "I'm glad you did." Her voice was as soft and gentle as her touch, a silky melody that soothed your nerves.

"I didn't wanna take any chances," you said honestly. Two people were better than one. You would never risk her safety to protect your ego.

"You did good," she told you, every word screaming honesty. She was proud of you, you realized. Proud and happy to see you. She never would have wanted you to endanger yourself for her. She wasn't that selfish — not anymore.

"I love you so much, Rowena. So, so much."

"I love you all the same, darling."

You knew. You knew very well, yet every time she said it your heart jumped wildly as if it was the very first time. There was a time when those words were nothing but your imagination, daydreams you never thought would come true. Never, in your wildest dreams, could you have imagined you would be hearing them almost every single day.

Rowena looked around. "Did you happen to see my shoes? That utter fanny took them. Those are Louboutins!" Her face was the picture of outrage. She looked as if she wanted to skin Martha alive solely for that.

Swallowing a laugh, you said, "They're right there." You pointed to behind the bed. "So is your jacket."

She breathed out in relief. "She'd better not have damaged them."

Mess with her shoes, and you were dead. You'd learned the hard way to stay far, far away from her footwear. If there was even a single scratch on them, Martha was dead meat.

"They look fine."

Rowena's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "We'll see."

"Your shoes are undamaged," a heavy-Southern-accented voice you never thought you'd hear again said, startling you. "I respect other people's possessions."

Martha stood in the doorway looking strangely imposing, almost threatening. One of her hands held onto Sam's forearm, her other one clutching a gun, holding it pressed straight against his temple. His gun, you realized as a pang of shock rushed through you, the one meant to kill her. It would have been ironic if it wasn't tragic.

You gulped, arms instinctively tightening around Rowena. Sam's eyes met yours, puppy-like, apologetic. You responded with a small shake of your head. It wasn't his fault. It was you who'd gotten him into this mess, you who'd called him begging for help. If anything, you were the one to blame.

"Do you?" you said in a tone that was a tad snarkier than intended. Pissing off the enemy wasn't the best idea, but you couldn't help it.

"Unlike you, I do," Martha replied in the same tone.

You snorted. "That's rich, coming from a kidnapper."

"All I did was rescue Rowena from your clutches." There was a strange conviction in her tone, utmost, absolute honesty. She believed what she was saying. She truly, genuinely believed her actions were justified.

A shudder ran through you at the realization. Villains who were evil for the sake of being evil were one thing. Those who were evil because they thought they were in the right were something completely different. Something, dare you say, terrifying. No amount of reasoning with them would work.

Martha suddenly seemed much more dangerous than you'd initially believed. In her delusion, she was saving Rowena, setting her free from your spell. There was nothing she wouldn't do to keep her safe.

Just like there was nothing you wouldn't do. You'd killed for her. Threatened. Destroyed. You'd done things you never would have done before, all in the name of love. Martha would do the same. Just because the threat wasn't real didn't mean she didn't perceive it as such. And, as such, it — you — and everything and everyone else that stood in her way had to be eliminated.

"I would never hurt her," you said, though you knew it was futile. The woman was far too gone for reason. Your hand slid up to the back of Rowena's head, cupping it, pressing it against you. A protective gesture, one you displayed every time she awoke from nightmares to let her know she was safe, that you were here and you wouldn't let anyone hurt her. "Never."

Martha was watching you like a hawk. For a moment it seemed as if she would snap, but then she sucked in a breath to regain her composure and said in a voice that was too calm to be friendly, "You're a liar. And Rowena will see it soon enough."

"You're not getting that potion anywhere near her!" you snarled.

"I'll do whatever's necessary to set her free."

"Y/N's already done that," Rowena said with a sardonic smile, shooting a brief glance to the discarded belts.

"She's brainwashed you, dear," Martha said as if she were speaking to a child, voice soft, motherly. It made your stomach turn. "She's making you think—"

"You're fucking crazy!" you snapped, having had enough of her nonsense.

"And you're a rapist!" she retorted. "Spelling her, making her do god-knows-what… She doesn't want you!"

"No, she doesn't want  _ you!" _ you spat. You were a rapist? You? The mere thought made you want to burst into uncontrollable laughter. Rich accusation, coming from a woman who wanted to force-feed Rowena a love potion.

"We'll see about that," Martha said. "Let her go, and I'll release the hunter."

You looked to her, then to Sam, and then to Rowena. You wanted nothing more than to hold Rowena tighter, if it was possible at this point. Wanted nothing more than to keep her safe, to protect her from this lunatic.

But you also wanted to help Sam. He was in trouble because of you. If you hadn't called him…

Rowena unwrapped her legs and pulled away from you. You grabbed her hand. "Rowena…"

"It's fine," she assured you. Glancing at Martha, she said, "Let him go. He's got nothing to do with this."

Damn her and her newfound conscience!

"Come here," Martha told her.

She tried to get up, but you put a hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. "Wait."

"I have to do this, Y/N."

"No, you don't." Your eyes found Sam's. I'm sorry, they said. Guilt tore at your heart, ripped it to pieces with every beat. As much as you wanted to help him, you wanted to help Rowena more. Wanted to protect her, as you always did. Wanted to keep her safe. If you had to choose between the two of them, you chose her. You would choose her every time.

"Y/N, please," Rowena said. The look in her eyes echoed her words, pleading, desperate. Guilty around the edges for reasons you couldn't comprehend. She laid a hand over yours, fingers wrapping around yours, squeezing tightly. A wordless promise that it would be okay, that she would be okay.

Sighing, you nodded and released her. You threw a glare at Martha, a sharp, pointed one. This wasn't over, it said. Not by a longshot. You came here to rescue Rowena, and that was exactly what you would do.

The other witch's face was the picture of triumph. Lips wide in a smile, features lit up, almost on fire, eyes gleaming like fireworks… All that was left was an evil cackle, which you were certain she was capable of. She looked it.

"Good girl," she said.

Rowena scowled at her. Getting to her feet, she slowly, tentatively stepped forward. Martha watched her, happy, joyous. It made your stomach turn. That woman had no right to look at your girlfriend like that, like she was a piece of meat, a trophy to be claimed. That was all Rowena was to her; a possession, an object. She may have thought she loved her, or cared about her, or whatever else she'd deluded herself into. The truth was, she wanted to own her. She wanted to have her just so you wouldn't anymore.

You couldn't let that happen, couldn't let this woman, this psycho, get her hands on your girl again. You hadn't worked so hard to earn Rowena's trust, and eventually her love, for some middle-aged, tantrum-throwing toddler to steal her from you.

Martha's eyes were on Rowena. Her hold on Sam wavered, gun looser against his temple. You looked at him, then at the witch, and back at him. As if he'd read your mind, he gave a small, barely noticeable nod. A silent go ahead.

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, you raised up a forefinger and, focused solely on Martha, shouted at the top of your lungs,  _ "ABI!" _

As if carried by an unseen force, Martha flew backwards. She slammed into the wall, her massive body leaving a dent in the concrete, and, with a loud yelp of pain, fell to the floor. Sam collapsed along with her, her hand only letting go of him once they were both down.

Rowena gasped, startled, but quickly composed herself and ran to the hunter's side. You followed after her when Martha, red faced and panting and pissed to high heavens, jumped to her feet and lunged at you like a wild animal. Before you could even think to defend yourself, she was straddling you, holding you in place. A rain of punches and scratches fell on your face, incessant, never-ending, a downpour of pain. You screamed as you raised your hands in attempts to shove her off, but she slapped them away and continued her assault.

"She's mine!" she shrieked. "You can't have her! She's mine!"

"Stop it!" you exclaimed.

"I won't let you take her from me!"

"Crazy cunt!" you spat.

Letting out an offended gasp, Martha punched you straight in the mouth. "You don't deserve her!"

Before you could utter another insult, Rowena shouted,  _ "Impetus bestiarum!" _

Martha stilled as if frozen. Her fists fell to her sides, limp, useless. Red veins framed her eyes; she looked up, head twitching like a junkie craving a fix.

Swallowing a lump that had formed in your throat, you turned to Rowena. Her hands were up, fingers clenched, glare fixed on Martha. Fury lined her face, made her teeth clench and the corners of her mouth twitch.

"End it," she said calmly.

Martha looked at you, then at her, before getting on her feet.

Then she lunged for the window and jumped in a rain of glass and blood.

A thud sounded as her body hit the floor. Rowena exhaled in relief before kneeling by you, hand clutching yours as if she hadn't held it in days.

"Are you okay?" she asked, voice soft, almost motherly.

"Yeah," you replied. "Thank you." Your fingers traced your face; there were a few cuts, and a couple of places stung, soon to blossom into bruises.

"That hag had no right to lay her hands on my wee girl."

"Exactly why I  _ Abi'd _ her."

Raising up into a sitting position, you pulled her into a hug. She returned it, holding with equal ferocity.

"Don't you ever get kidnapped again," you said.

"I solemnly swear I will try not to," Rowena said with a chuckle.

"Good. I hate getting beaten up to save your ass," you teased.

"At least your shoes weren't stolen."

"Your shoes are fine, unlike my face."

"Um, guys?"

Frowning, the two of you separated and glanced back. Sam was looking at you with a mixture of impatience and relief.

You were so caught up in Rowena that you'd forgotten he was here.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Aye," Rowena said. "And you?"

He gave a small nod.

"Sorry for… y'know, blasting you," you said, apologetic.

He smiled. "Don't worry about it. You all set to go?"

"Yeah," you said.

"Let's go home," Rowena agreed and made a disgusted face. "I need a bath."

"Of course you do," you deadpanned.

She cocked up an eyebrow. "Lass, I just saved your arse."

"And I saved yours," you reminded her. "So we're even."

She sighed. "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you love me."

"Maybe you  _ did _ spell me," she joked.

"Sure."

The banter persisted the entire way home, much to Sam's chagrin. But, despite the surface annoyance, the smile never left his mouth. His friend was okay, and was reunited with her girlfriend. She was happy.

Mission accomplished.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by OswinTheStrange.


End file.
